


In Sleep (what dreams may come)

by IAmANonnieMouse



Series: Author's Favorites [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: And all that jazz, Limbo, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Eames (Inception), Pining, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: "Come and find me, Eames."It's dusk, and the sky is blood red behind him. Eames' hands itch for a brush, a pencil to capture the silhouette he cuts in the fading light.Arthur is looking at him, lips curled in that Mona Lisa smile. Eames stares."You trust me to find you, Arthur?" he asks, words stolen by the wind.Arthur's eyes soften and his response is more than Eames can bear.





	In Sleep (what dreams may come)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deinvati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/gifts).



> For Deinvati, who sent [this poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/variation-word-sleep) to me and Flos and said, isn't this such an Arthur/Eames thing???? And I agreed. So I wrote a thing.  
> (Flos, I would gift this to you too, but we both know the only thing you want from me is more ANKOS, so I'm saving your gift for later <3 )

It's snowing today. Or maybe that's rain. He can't quite tell, can only feel the texture of it landing on his face.

"What are you doing?" his friend asks. He's quiet, this friend. Sharp and sleek and so painfully _real_ in this world where everything is muffled and blurry and dull. He's beautiful.

"I'm not sure," he says to his friend. "What are we doing?"

He watches his friend ponder that. He's always watching, looking, learning. Yearning. For what, he no longer knows. But old habits die hard, even ones he can't remember.

His friend frowns suddenly and looks around. "Are we sleeping?"

He laughs, at first, because it seems the thing to do, but his laughter slowly dies, fades away in muted echoes.

He looks around, sluggish mind fighting to think. "Sleeping?" he says. His hand slides into his pocket, searching for something that isn't there. "Maybe. Anything is possible here."

He turns back to his friend. Watches, looks, yearns. 

Old habits die hard.

.  
.

_I would like to watch you sleeping,_  
_which may not happen._  
_I would like to watch you,_  
_sleeping._

.  
.

It's been six weeks since Eames last heard from Arthur. He's trying not to be too worried.

Arthur left for a project he wanted to pursue, a theory he wanted to test. 

"I'll be radio silent for a while," he told Eames. "Try not to miss me."

What he meant was, _If I'm gone too long, come and find me._

"How did you know, darling?" Eames responded, flashy and light. "I mourn your absences."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm going now. Try not to follow me."

What he meant was, _You'll know where you can find me._

Eames always knows. It's like their own incarnation of the red thread; they always know how to find each other, linked by secrets and trust and unspoken truths.

Eames knows where Arthur is. That's why he's worried.

.  
.

It's definitely snowing today. He and his friend build a family of snowmen, laughing as they force the white dust into muddled lumps and balls. They place the figures in a ring and make a small structure in the middle, right at the center of the circle.

They stop and look.

"What does it mean?" he asks, voice pressing against the suffocating quiet.

"Nothing," his friend says. "Everything?"

"What are we doing here?" he asks.

"I don't know," his friend says.

"How did we get here?" he asks.

His friend turns to him, eyes dark and troubled. "I don’t know."

He turns back to look at their snowmen, but they've already vanished, melting in the sudden, oppressive heat. 

He shivers, his hand sliding into his pocket. Something's not right.

.  
.

_I would like to sleep_  
_with you, to enter_  
_your sleep as its smooth dark wave_  
_slides over my head_

.  
.

When Eames' phone rings, he almost pounces on it. "Yes, hello?" he says, a rush of words and air.

"Eames," says a feminine voice. "It's Alex. I have a job that I think would interest you. I'm in Malibu."

"Malibu," Eames says, instead of, _You're not Arthur._ "Haven't been there in a while. What's the job?"

"Two levels, edgy enough to pique your interest. And a fun forge, too."

Eames hums. Two levels, that's still risky in the real world. But he's conquered inception, survived a three-level dream under heavy sedation with an extractor who fell into limbo along with their mark and their employer, so nothing scares him anymore.

Almost.

"Sure, why not," he says. "I can be there within the week."

"Great," Alex says. "Can you call Arthur on your way and ask him to join us? I emailed him a couple weeks ago, but he hasn't answered."

"Of course," Eames answers, distant. "But if you want me to pick up Arthur, I may be a bit longer than a week."

"Take your time," Alex says.

Eames barely hears her.

.  
.

Try not to miss me. 

(If I'm gone too long, come and find me.) 

.  
.

"Come and find me, Eames."

It's dusk, and the sky is blood red behind him. Eames' hands itch for a brush, a pencil to capture the silhouette he cuts in the fading light.

Arthur is looking at him, lips curled in that Mona Lisa smile. Eames stares.

"You trust me to find you, Arthur?" he asks, words stolen by the wind.

Arthur's eyes soften and his response is more than Eames can bear.

The sun sets, leaching all the colors from the world. 

Eames is lost. 

.  
.

_and walk with you through that lucent_  
_wavering forest of bluegreen leaves_  
_with its watery sun & three moons_  
_towards the cave where you must descend,_  
_towards your worst fear_

.  
.

His plane is late. Eames steals more things than he has room for, then spends the rest of his time slipping his loot into other strangers' pockets. And then they're finally boarding, and then they're finally in the air, and Eames watches the tiny cartoon plane travel across the digital world and thinks, _Six weeks. He's been gone for six weeks._

He closes his eyes for a precious moment.

The plane lands. 

Eames steals a man's wallet and hails a taxi.

"Where to?" the driver asks, watching Eames in the rearview mirror.

 _Hell,_ Eames thinks. He gives an address, passes along a handful of bills. 

They arrive at the location too quickly—or maybe it's Eames' mind that's too slow. He straightens his coat and steps out of the car.

As he walks toward the front door, he thinks, _It's been six weeks, Arthur. I'm coming to find you._

But then the ground turns into the sky and the birds flying overhead are falling under his feet and when Eames reaches for the door, his hand touches nothing but air.

"Lost," the birds caw underground as the sky and the earth merge into one, trapping Eames under, between, inside.

Eames is lost.

.  
.

They build snowmen again the next day, and the next. Except, he isn't sure it's been days—nothing ever seems to change around here.

But something itches at him, runs up the back of his spine and settles, on edge, at the base of his neck.

"I think I want to leave here," he tells his friend one day, night, dawn. The sun sits high in the sky, where it always is.

He watches his friend ponder that. Something inside him twinges, briefly, but it's soon forgotten.

"Alright," his friend says. "Let's leave."

He slides his hand into his pocket and clutches only fabric and air. He reaches out and takes his friend's hand instead.

His friend glances at him and almost-barely smiles. 

They walk.

.  
.

_I would like to give you the silver_  
_branch, the small white flower, the one_  
_word that will protect you_  
_from the grief at the center_  
_of your dream_

.  
.

Once upon a time there was a prince named Arthur. He was destined to be the ruler of Camelot, but there were things he wanted to seek, to find, to understand.

He left in the middle of the night, so nobody would know he had gone. (So nobody could stop him from going alone.)

 _I'll be back, I promise,_ read the note he left behind. _You'll know where you can find me._

And one day, six weeks later, Eames left to find him.

.  
.

They walk. They walk for hours, days, years. The ground below and the sky above stretch for miles and miles. He's starting to wonder what parts of it are real.

The only things he is certain of are the weight of his friend's hand in his own, and the strain in his muscles that tells him he's still moving.

"Have we even gotten anywhere?" his friend asks, frowning.

"We've been walking forever," he says. "Don't you feel it?"

"Sure," his friend says. "But it doesn't look it."

They stop and turn back. Everything is the same. Brown dirt, blue sky, and nothing in between.

"Maybe we're supposed to be looking for something," he suggests.

"Like what?" The wind catches in his friend's hair, twirling it around his face.

"Is there something you were looking for when I found you?" he asks.

His friend pauses. "No," he says slowly. "But there was something I was hiding."

On the horizon, a shape emerges.

They clasp hands and walk.

.  
.

"I'll be radio silent for a while," Arthur told Eames. "Try not to miss me."

But—no, that's not quite right. Because there's another memory somewhere, an alternate story, and they both can't be true. 

(Can they?)

In this other memory, there's no Arthur. Only an empty hotel room, a single, rumpled bed, a missing briefcase by the door.

Only a paper, covered in slanted, melted handwriting, that starts with _I'll be back_ and ends with _find me._

.  
.

The earth meets the sky and Eames is trapped under, between, inside. Eames is lost, but—

He blinks, and he's standing on water, but his head is submerged. He tries to inhale and his lungs fill with—

dust, he's in a desert now, blistering sand and searing heat. A scorpion scuttles across the nearest dune, closer, closer. It reaches his leg, and starts to climb—

and now it's a snake wrapped around him, steadily moving higher, higher, higher. A python or a boa constrictor, maybe. Eames never bothered to learn about snakes, and he's regretting that now.

"Where is Arthur?" it hisses, tongue flicking against his ear.

Eames shuts his eyes, tries to change his own skin, slide into another body.

The snake tightens its coils, almost suffocating him.

"Where is Arthur?" a girl's voice whispers, and the pressure is gone. 

Eames opens his eyes and stares.

"Where is Arthur?" the voice asks again.

"Lost," Eames breathes. "We are both lost."

.  
.

It's a door that's waiting for them on the horizon. When they reach it, the sun is beginning to set, staining the world with oranges and reds. 

"Should we open it?" he asks. He looks around and slides a hand in his pocket, fingers almost reaching something.

He looks back at his friend and thinks that he would make a stunning painting like this, sharp and sleek and beautiful against the blood-red sky.

"We open it," his friend says. One of his hands is wrapped around Eames'. The other reaches out towards the door.

.  
.

"Come and find me, Eames."

"You trust me to find you, Arthur?"

"You always do."

.  
.

 _Lost,_ Eames thinks, over and over and over again. _I must become lost._

Demons haunt him, specters or ghosts or memories, always asking the same question.

Eames runs and tries to hide, but they always manage to find him, shadow him.

_Where is Arthur?_

He finds refuge in a small building and hurries down to the basement. There's a carpet on the floor, made of an old-fashioned messy weave with colors that mirror the walls of his own bedroom.

He lifts the rug and climbs through the trap door hidden underneath. Down, down, down into darkness.

("Where to?")

(Hell.)

 _I'm coming,_ he thinks. _I'm coming to find you._

.  
.

_I would like to follow_  
_you up the long stairway_  
_again & become_  
_the boat that would row you back_  
_carefully,_

.  
.

His friend pushes open the door, and on the other side is a room. A small room, with a bed, a desk, a chair. 

"This is it?" he asks, stepping inside. He turns, takes it all in.

"I know what this is," his friend says. He walks over to the nightstand. On top is a pad of paper.

As they watch, words appear on the page, scribbled in slanted, melted handwriting that is achingly familiar.

_I'll be back, I promise. You'll know where you can find me. You always do._

He reads it again, mind flickering. "Is that…"

His friend takes his hand. "I know where we are," he says.

He leads him to the bed, and they lay down side by side. "Do you trust me?" his friend asks.

"Of course I do," he answers.

His friend smiles. Not an almost-barely smile, but a full smile, glittering and wide and beautiful. God, he's beautiful.

"Thank you," he says. "You found me, Eames. I knew you would."

And his friend raises his hand and curls his finger around the trigger of a gun.

.  
.

_a flame_  
_in two cupped hands_  
_to where your body lies_  
_beside me, and you enter_  
_it as easily as breathing in_

.  
.

They wake together, inhaling the same breath. They're in a small room, arms linked to a PASIV.

Eames looks to his right and gets lost, for a precious moment, in watching Arthur. Looking, learning. Yearning.

"Eames," Arthur murmurs.

Eames sits up, unsteady. He slides his hand into his pocket, curls his fingers around his totem. 

"I lost you," Eames says. "Six weeks, I lost you."

"I was looking for something," Arthur tells him. "I needed you to lose me, or else I wouldn't be able to find it."

Eames inhales. Exhales. Already the dream is fading, leaving him only fleeting images and tumultuous feelings.

Blue sky, brown earth. A dark silhouette against the setting sun.

Whispered words.

_Come and find me._

"Well, did you get it?" he manages to ask. "Whatever you were looking for?"

Arthur's breath trickles over his skin. "Yeah, I did. Because you found me."

A hand closes around Eames' arm, the weight equal parts torturous and reassuring. He looks up.

"Eames," Arthur says. The look in his eyes is more than Eames can bear.

Eames stands, and it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do. He stands and slides both hands into his pockets and turns back to look at Arthur. To watch, to learn.

"Alex called," he says. "She has a job for us in Malibu."

In his mind, he ingrains a single image. His hands itch for a brush, a pencil. He clutches his totem instead.

.  
.

They touch down in Malibu without much fuss. Alex meets them at the airport.

"I'm glad you guys could make it," she says. 

"Thanks for telling us about the job," Arthur says. He reaches out and shakes her hand.

Eames watches, looks. Yearns.

He thinks about the dream. Remembers snowmen, smiles, tightly clasped hands. 

He slides his hand into his pocket, curls his fingers around his totem.

 _I found him,_ he tells himself. _I found him._

Arthur glances over at him and smiles his Mona Lisa smile.

Eames follows them back to their home base, looks over the information Alex has gathered for them. In the margins of her notes, he writes, over and over and over, Arthur's handwriting coming to him as easily as his own.

_You always do._

.  
.

_I would like to be the air_  
_that inhabits you for a moment_  
_only. I would like to be that unnoticed_  
_& that necessary._

.  
.

He climbs and climbs, down, down, and down.

(Where to?)

(Hell.)

He's climbed for so long he can't remember why he's climbing, what he's looking for, what he's left behind.

He only knows: _I must lose myself._

So he does.

By the time his feet touch the ground and a figure approaches, cutting a sharp silhouette against the rising run, he's lost everything he knows.

The figure draws closer. It's a man, about his height. He flashes an almost-barely smile.

"It's snowing," the man says.

He holds out his hands to catch the snow and wonders if it could be rain.

.  
.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Tumblr](iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com) if you ever want to come and chat :)
> 
> Also, I realized after I wrote this that this style kind of emulates [littleredcosette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/LittleRedCosette), who writes the most _exquisite_ non-linear narration. Go check out their works!!


End file.
